


Hues of The Sea

by orphan_account



Category: Video Blogging & YouTube RPF
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 12:10:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another pretentious piece brought to ao3 by yours truly x</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hues of The Sea

Tom’s POV:

Some people have this air about them, you know. They exude this aura, this charm. It’s like, something you can’t quite place your finger on but there it is, pulling you in, as present as ever.

He’s got it. I mean, let’s face it, he’s the reason I’m on this train anyway. Everyday, he’s there with his cup of coffee and green bag in tow, and that sparkle in his eyes. He green, gorgeous eyes. I’m sure most people miss it, they get too lost in his face, but I see it. It’s the mark of a storyteller and I can tell by the ink on his fingertips and the occasional smear of charcoal on his face that he is one. I bet he’s even got a guitar.

He’s quite lanky, and frankly, very attractive. I wonder what he sounds like. All raspy and serene but with odd rhythms and clear, sharp, rectangular sounds and a smirk for emphasis. I read people, sitting on theses empty trains leading nowhere and I know him. He’s the sort of person that meets the world head on, adhering to what’s expected of him but so much more once you break the surface. I think he’s the sort that comes to terms with how possessive his abilities are and tries to work his way around that, rather than trying to make them work around him. He seems driven. A lesser person, read me, would’ve completely surrendered.

PJ’s POV:

He thinks no one sees him. I do. In his little corner of the train. All skinny legs and brilliant blue hair and those hazel eyes he uses to peer out at the world through his window. He seems like one of those people whom you know live for nothing other than their art and it consumes them. He’s everything I think I am within but he wears it so much better.

I think that every thought of his is a creation and that he probably bounces about in child like awe of the world. I have this intense desire to just hold him, he’s just so damn endearing. As though I can stop the world and breathe as soon as his head drops to my chest.

And I want him to toss up everything in my world and turn it inside out and leave it a passionate, aching, brilliant blue. I want to play for him and hear his hushed tones mix with my rasp and for our blues and greens to melt into the ocean so that I can shield him from the world, where he can be mine to hold and I can be his to mold.

So the next day I walk past my usual spot on the train and laugh a little as I see him scramble to untangle himself and sit up. I approach and sit down across from him. “Hi.” I smile. “I’m PJ.”

“Tom.” He replies. My heart gives a jolt, his voice is just as I pictured, a laugh and a whisper wrapped in one, comforting and warm. “Coffee?” he asks.

I lean over and reach for the cup. For a brief moment our hands are tangled and as his ice meets my fire I know I am lost.


End file.
